


Our Song

by theonsfavouritetoy



Series: A Song of Our Own (Until Springtime) [7]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post GOT, Spring is finally here, a lot of fluff this time, direwolf pups
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-11-06 23:17:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17949065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theonsfavouritetoy/pseuds/theonsfavouritetoy
Summary: “Do you think they’ll sing songs about you someday?”“I can hear them already. Jon Targaryen, the king who knew nothing, not even his own name.”





	Our Song

**Author's Note:**

> Last part! And the one I was most excited about because I'm essentially nothing but a huge ball of fluff and sap wrapped in a bitch-faced costume.
> 
> Spring is here! Pups! SO MUCH FLUFF!
> 
> A big thank you goes to @Quicksilvermaid, my wonderful, trusted, amazing Alpha Reader, and to the equally amazing @half_life who lets me harrass her with my weird stories all the time. Luv you both!!!!!

“Do you think they’ll sing songs about you someday?” Theon muses, waiting for Jon to go on. 

His eyes are closed, his face turned upwards, bathed in the watery sunlight. It highlights the new lines, the scars, but he’s beautiful, and Theon cannot look away. Jon laughs, a short bark. 

“I can hear them already. Jon Targaryen, the king who knew nothing, not even his own name.”

“The King who saved us all,” Theon corrects. “The White Wolf, the Winter Dragon. Jon Targaryen, First of his name.”

“Better than Aegon,” Jon mumbles, eyebrows raised. “What will the songs say about you?”

“Oh.” Theon shrugs, wrapping his cloak tighter around himself. “The misfortunes of Theon Turncloak and his eternal quest to be worthy of the king he loves.”

Jon slowly turns his head, eyes as black as dragonglass in the sunlight. The silence is heavy, laden with all that stands between them, and everything that binds them together. Something hot and achy pools in Theon’s stomach. 

“It’s a nice day for a walk,” Jon finally says. “I’ve spent too much time inside. You’re probably sick of my moping around.”

Not sick, he never could be sick of Jon, Theon thinks, only concerned. But it gets better. Every day is another step. They’ve talked about it, Sansa and Theon, a lot. How to help Jon. What to do to make him feel needed. But it had been Gendry’s idea that had made the difference. 

“Let him train the kids,” he’d said, shrugging when Sansa had fixated him with an ominous look. “What? He doesn’t have to over exert himself, he can pass on what he knows, he stops sitting around like a miserable bastard and the children learn a useful skill. Might take up some training myself.”

It had been the perfect solution. At the beginning Jon had been so insecure, afraid of snapping at the little ones, afraid of scaring them. But with Gendry’s occasional input he’d gained confidence, and now he’s teaching every boy and girl in the whole North it seems. They adore him. 

Theon watches them sometimes, although it’s painful. All those memories, of himself and Robb and Jon training in this very spot under the stern eyes of Ser Rodrik... It’s a pain Theon doesn’t shy away from, he deserves every stab of it. Truly lost, yes. But not anymore. 

They’ve asked him to teach bow shooting, Jon and Gendry, argumenting that he doesn’t need to hold bow and arrow himself to show the children how to do it. Theon’s not sure if this is a good idea. But if he refuses Gendry will just keep pestering him anyway. 

He’s a good guy, that smith. A good friend, for Jon and, now that he lets him, for Theon too. No sneering, no offhand comments or eunuch japes. Just a warm, friendly man who’s lost the most important person he ever had. Theon feels bad about being suspicious of him at first. 

“This way, sleepwalker,” Jon says now, taking Theon’s arm as he starts to climb down a steep decline, carefully avoiding big roots protruding from the thin green carpet covering the forest ground. “What were you thinking of this time?”

“You,” Theon answers mostly correct. 

Jon stops when they reach the ground, turning to face Theon with a lopsided smile. 

“That’s what you always say when you wake up from one of your ghost periods.” He sighs. “I have a hard time getting used to this one thing. How still you have become. I think you could probably stand there and don’t move a muscle for hours. It makes people forget you’re there.”

Theon blinks. He hasn’t realized he’s still doing this. It was necessary at the time. Now it’s just a habit, one he can’t shake off it seems. Is that why Jon still won’t touch him? Because he forgets Theon is there? 

“Don’t tell me you’re still cold,” Jon mutters disapprovingly as Theon shudders. “It’s such a warm day I barely need my pelt.”

Warm. Well, that’s debatable. There’s still snow on the ground and their breath is clearly visible in front of their faces. It needs a lot more than this to make Theon feel warm. He doesn’t say it. He doesn’t want to whine, burden Jon with things he cannot change. 

“Hey,” Jon says, concerned now. “What is it?”

Theon shakes his head. He’d rather be dragged down into the Drowned God’s Realm than touch that topic ever again. And Jon is so much better. If he needs it, he will tell Theon. Maybe he’ll tell him he will get it from someone else. All is good as long as Jon is well. Even if it would hurt. 

“Nothing, my king,” he says, trying to steady his voice, stretching his lips into a smile. “What is it we’re here for? You haven’t told me.”

“Ah,” Jon says, and now he smiles for real, his eyes sparkling. “Not far now. You best don’t say anything until I’ve made clear we’re no threat.”

Threat? Confused, Theon lets Jon pull him further into the undergrowth and the trees, trying not to stumble. After a good five minutes the sun suddenly blinds him as they break out into a small clearing. A clearing with a giant wolf waiting for them. 

“Nymeria,” Jon calls and she inclines her head like in greeting. “I’ve come to show Theon your pups.”

Pups. Theon can feel his mouth falling open despite everything. The beast apparently understands every word Jon says, she now turns her large head towards Theon, perusing him so thoroughly it feels like needles pricking his skin. Finally she blinks, and leaps away to the edge of the clearing. 

And there, hidden in the shadows, is her den. Nymeria yelps, a strange sound for such a humongous animal, and in seconds the entry to the den is alive with two yapping wolves. They’re tiny, stumbling around clumsily at their mother’s feet. Jon takes a step nearer under Nymeria’s watchful gaze. 

“Come,” he says, taking Theon’s arm again, and leads him closer. “You can decide which one you want.”

“What…” Theon lets Jon pull him down, swaying when he loses his balance. He sits down on the cold ground, and Jon crouches next to him. “I don’t understand?”

“Choose your pup,” Jon explains patiently. “There’s one for each of us. You, Sansa and me. We won’t take these to the castle, mind. They’re going to be wild, and free. But we can bond with them.” 

“Where’s the third?” Theon asks, watching the two furballs rolling over each other. “I only see two.”

“She’s a bit shy.” Jon smiles, then nods at the den. “There she is.”

Theon watches a tiny wet nose appear from the shadows, sniffing the air suspiciously. A grey paw taps out only to disappear again. Finally the whole pup comes into view. She’s even tinier than the other two, her fur is a luscious grey and her eyes--

“She’s blind,” Jon says in Theon’s ear. 

Theon holds his breath as the little creature carefully sets one paw before the other, constantly sniffing the air. She’s slowly but surely coming his way. 

“You smell new to her I guess. Curious little girl.” Jon chuckles softly, then suddenly leans in to nose at Theon’s cheek. “The runt of the litter,” he says. 

Theon shudders, the closeness is unexpected and so, so welcome, he doesn’t dare to move a muscle, scared to spook them, Jon and the blind little wolf. She has reached them now, and Theon slowly moves his gloved hand towards her. Her ears twitch, her nose flickers, and with an endearing little growl she digs her teeth into the leather. 

“She’s mine,” Theon says, bubbles of joy welling up in his throat as he watches the animal jerk her head, obviously trying to finish off her prey. 

“Aye, I think so too. What name will you give her?”

It’s the most obvious decision Theon has ever made in his life. After scaring the shit out of him upon their meeting again, she’d told him all about her dealings in Braavos. The possibility of being faceless, of being able to change one’s identity, had fascinated Theon to no end. He’d admired her. Envied her. 

“Arya,” he says, and Jon’s hand catches Theon’s chin, he looks at him for a long moment. 

“I’m not a bard, but… A ballad for Theon,” he whispers and leans in, placing a soft kiss on Theon’s cheek. “Theon the Survivor.” A kiss to his neck. “Theon the Kraken, Theon of the Wolves.” Another soft kiss close to his mouth. “Theon and the king who knew nothing except one thing.”

Theon shudders, he opens his mouth and lets Jon show him what it is he knows, the words are not needed, he’s never needed them, only Jon and the certainty that this is where he’s wanted, that this is where he belongs.

“Let’s go home,” Jon mumbles against Theon’s skin, his hand slowly gliding over his chest and down to his waist. “Spring is here.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone who was with me and the boys on this journey - I appreciate every single kudo and comment so much! 
> 
> I've had the vague idea for months now, to maybe write a nice long multi-chapter set in canon season eight - or after, I even started a little thing with Jon and Theon getting to know each other better when they have rare moments of peace. This series now is something like a teaser I guess, because I will definitely follow that thought and (after watching season eight and hopefully not dying of a broken heart) I will write this long fic.  
> Not sure yet if I will start it set in season eight, or after - that depends on how many and which characters are still standing. If D&D should do what I fear they will (kill off one or two of the protagonists of my favourite ship) I can pretty much guarantee that they'll be very much alive in anything I'll write.
> 
> Wow, what a sermon. Sorry XD


End file.
